


civil disobedience

by ygrittebardots



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ygrittebardots/pseuds/ygrittebardots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Night's Watch agent Jon Snow is having a decidedly unproductive day and the boys at the station make a not-so-surprising arrest. Modernised Westeros.</p>
            </blockquote>





	civil disobedience

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the middle of a much bigger project and this was born of a need to write something fun and pointless. Enjoy!

It’s already been a long day, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be getting any shorter anytime soon. Jon stares hard at the memo that’s just come in, sprawled across his desk as though daring him to just give up and scream. No. No, this cannot be happening. He protests the very notion. He continues to glare at the memo, willing it to simply disappear, and the memo glares right back up at him. 

Yawning hugely, Jon covers his face with both hands and rubs at his itching eyes, blinking profusely as he then runs his hands back into the impossible mess his hair’s become. He’ll have to get a trim before driving down for the wedding, or he’ll never hear the end of it. That is, if he manages to close this case before the wedding, the likelihood of which is looking increasingly smaller with every hour.

“No moves on the Walkers, then?” asks Sam, setting a styrofoam cup of coffee down on the desk in front of him.

“Gods bless you, man,” he responds, grabbing for the cup, the nutty tones of office brew wafting over him in waves. “And no, bit the opposite, really.”

He gestures to the memo sitting on the fat file in front of him as he takes a sip of instant heaven. Sam picks it up and frowns as Jon continues, “Lead with Craster’s shot to shit now his daughters’ve decided they’re not talking.”

“I thought they’d all agreed?”

Jon shakes his head. “It was nothing official. Nothing signed.”

“Warrant?”

“A warrant can’t make them talk. And we’ve not got the charges, anyway.”

Sam laughs slightly, that sort of breath dump that only Samwell Tarly can ever manage to seem genuine about. “Are you serious?” he asks. “A string of boys abducted, and the daughters of a man whose sons all seem to mysteriously die in infancy want to talk to us about it, then suddenly decide they aren’t so keen after all? How have we not got the charges?”

“Words are wind,” Jon says, and is immediately aware that he sounds more like an old man in a pub than a NW agent. Well, that’s what you get for quoting Dad, isn’t it? Jon sighs and runs his hand over his face again. “It’s suspicious as all hell,” he clarifies. “I know. But we need something more concrete than that.”

“Well… what about Gilly?”

“You are _not_ talking to Gilly.”

“Well, why not?” asks Sam, affronted.

He raises an eyebrow. Sam’s smart - much smarter than he is, Jon will admit - and means well, but there’s a reason he’s a steward and not a ranger. “Because,” he answers very simply, more tired than anything, “we don’t mix our personal lives with casework. Bring her in, if she agrees, but I don’t want you questioning her at home.”

“Snow!”

Both Jon and Sam turn abruptly in the direction of the corner office, where Commander Thorne appears to have been interrupted by Grenn mid-conversation with Agent Slynt and looks none too happy about it.

“Sir?”

“The officers have something of yours downstairs,” says Thorne, Grenn looking terribly apologetic next to him, and that, if nothing else, feels like a punch in the gut. “I suggest you go and collect it.” He turns back to Slynt with an unpleasant smirk on his face.

Jon pushes himself away from his desk and stands for the first time in what feels like days, taking a moment to roll down his spine as he gathers his thoughts together. If it is what he thinks it is - and there are really two ways this could go - he’ll probably not be coming back up. It’s just as well. He’s making no headway by simply staring at a memo and if Gilly wants to come in to give her statement tomorrow, well, that’s as much a step in the right direction as he can hope for at this point. 

Besides, it’s well past ten-thirty. It’s time to head home, whether what awaits him downstairs is what he thinks it is or not.

Only he really, really hopes it’s not.

“See you tomorrow, Sam,” he says, gathering his things. “Go home, get some sleep. And about Gilly - ”

“I heard you the first time,” Sam says, waving him away. “I’ll get her in. D’you know what Thorne meant? About something of yours downstairs?”

“I’ve got an idea. I just hope I’m wrong.”

Of course, he isn’t.

The North County Police Department is situated on the ground floor of the Night’s Watch Headquarters, and Ygritte looks perfectly at home in her surroundings. Laced-up boots crossed casually over the other and hair pulled back in a braid that manages to be at once elegant and a complete mess, she’s laughing at something Pyp’s said to her as she accepts a paper cup of tea from him. In fact, were it not for the glint of silver chaining her wrist to the bench, it’d seem to all the world she’d just popped in for a visit.

She notices him almost as soon as the elevator closes and says, “Hello, darling. How was work today?”

“Dismal,” he responds, setting himself down heavily next to her and tapping his cup against hers in a mock toast. “A dead-end case, total prick of a commander, and would you know it? Seems my wife’s managed to get herself arrested again.”

“Oh, how terrible for you.”

“Think that makes, what? Four times this month?”

“Shameful,” she tuts, and bumps his shoulder with hers. “Well, I had a lovely day. Got a bit of work done, went to the farmer’s market - oh, I got some lovely beets - ”

“Did you?”

“Mm. And after that, well, let me see… Walked the dog, staged a protest. The usual, really.”

Jon looks up at Pyp and Edd and Grenn, all of whom look a bit lost for words. Finally it’s Edd, lovely to-the-point Edd, who says, “She chained herself to the station stairs.”

“Edd here was good enough to escort me inside,” says Ygritte, smiling up at the men who are something of a semi-permanent fixture in the flat she and Jon share, “and thank the gods for that, it’s got right nippy out.”

Jon frowns. “Where are Mance and Tormund, then?”

Ygritte shrugs and takes a sip of tea. 

“Ygritte - ”

“Um, Jon?” says Pyp, pulling out a sign from a pile near his desk. “I don’t think this was Party business.”

The sign, for all that it’s clearly homemade, is very well-done. The picture of Alliser Thorne is one Jon recognises from one of his failed campaigns several years back, and the Iron Crown affixed atop his head looks as natural as if Thorne had actually worn it when the photo was taken. Neat, bold print below his face bears the slogan ‘WE DO NOT KNEEL’.

Jon doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry.

In hindsight, he doesn’t actually know how he didn’t see this coming. Lately when the two of them get home from work in the evenings, there’s only been three topics of conversation - Robb’s wedding, what film they’re going to pull out of the Netflix queue, and Ser Alliser Fucking Thorne, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. “ _Interim_ Lord Commander,” Jon is always quick to put in, though whether it’s to remind her or to keep himself from going completely off his nut is up for debate. Thorne, after all, has been Interim Lord Commander for a far longer interim than anyone, agent and civilian alike, has cared for. 

There ought to have been an election months ago, and yet Thorne has so far managed to put it off with some excuse or other every time the subject is breached. The department’s not stable enough, they’ve too few agents, the country’s in a time of unrest. To deny any of these would be folly, but the fact is the people don’t like Thorne. His harsh policies would be enough to damn him in the eyes of the general population, but if that weren’t enough, he still holds onto the old ways - prejudice against giants and the Free Folk, carrying royalist views of hierarchy and class that the majority of Westeros find distasteful. Not the best situation for either Jon or Ygritte, but they’re made of different stuff. While Jon is content to grit his teeth and ride it out until the inevitable election, Ygritte has never been one to sit idly by.

“Actually,” she’s saying now, gesturing to the sign, “d’you mind if I have that back? I worked rather hard on that and the bastard didn’t even see it.”

“Um,” says Pyp. “Sure.”

He leans the sign awkwardly against the bench next to her, then steps back a few paces while Edd slides the key into the lock and the chain comes loose around her wrist. Ygritte smiles and pops up off the bench, shaking her wrist out.

“Don’t bother with that,” says Grenn as Jon pulls his wallet out of his coat pocket. 

“You sure?"

Grenn nods. “I think we can let it slide this once.”

“Besides,” says Ygritte, sliding her hand into his, “I’ve a feeling we’re going to be seeing each other again fairly soon, won’t we?”

“I really hope you’re talking about poker night.”

“We’ll see,” she says, and her smile is positively devious.

Jon rolls his eyes and tugs at her hand. “Come on, Mrs. Snow,” he says, throwing his arm over her shoulder as he feels hers come to rest across his back. Ygritte stoops to pick up the sign with her free hand and the two of them walk through the police station doors, out into the wintery northern night air.


End file.
